Beauty in the Thorns

I am drawing near the end of my first week back from Ludlati.  At home, with my bride, I have an understanding heart and a listening ear.  I love this woman.  She "gets it".  She understands.  After all, though she might not have personally stepped foot on African soil, she was there in spirit with me, there in prayer.  She loves these people, these children as much as I.  She was literally holding together our lives here making it possible for me to be present with eleven others to reach across the globe to our Ludlati friends.  She had no less a part in this story than I.  I will be forever grateful to her.

What I encounter in the world, particularly at my work is another story altogether.  I have been greeted with many a "Welcome Back! How was Africa?".  Most making this statement assume I have been on some sort of organized charity work with a great many tales to tell of wild animals and exotic foods.  Most are still unaware of where Swaziland is, knowing only it is on that "dark continent" but not quite north enough to be near the middle east.  They are interested in the sights and sounds and sensationalist details of extreme poverty, but if I start to provide too many details, most start to shift uncomfortably or look around indicating they need to get back to work.  This saddens me.  It grabs at my heart because I know if they only knew what I knew they would be forever changed.

There is a scar on my left arm that is healing.   It is about six inches long and was obtained while I was trekking the perimeter of the care point fence praying one morning.  This was not a leisurely walk for the thorns; small shrubs heavily laden with two to four inch barbs throughout.  They are everywhere.  Continually they grab at your clothing, snagging you, holding you back, attempting to puncture the layers.  Even with my good clothing, long pants, socks, good shoes and the like, it was work getting through the tangle and I failed to do so unscathed. 

The older boys have cleared this scrub from the soccer field area but it is present just beyond the goal posts.  I noted early in the week some of the boys who did not have shoes would share a pair, running up and down the field with only one shoe on.  When the ball went wild and into the thorns, they would hop, one legged on the foot with the shoe, to retrieve the ball.  Sad, but smart at the same time.

The thorns in this place, do not detract from the beauty of Ludlati.  They do not impede the persistent care of the bomake.  In fact, they do not even seem to impact the attendance nor the play of the children.  They are simply part of the fabric of this place.  There is a harshness in the jagged rocks and barbed thorns, but it is all woven together with the warmth of the smiles of children and the sounds of laughter, the bleating of passing goats, and the smell of the cook fire.  Even among the thorns, there is a simple clean beauty in this place.

When I see the thorns, I am reminded of something else.  I am reminded that though life is full of entanglements clutching and grabbing at us as we pass through, and though we will lose blood, sweat, or tears as we engage them, though we will feel the penetration of those barbs as we move through this world, we are not to shy away from them.  If we do, we will miss out on the greatest of treasures.  If we only love safely, if we only risk little, if we only live sparingly, if we only stay on the "safe paths", then we will lose the beauty of what God has in store for each of us.

When I see these thorns, I am also reminded of another picture. I am reminded of a woven crown of thorns, pressed down upon a bloodied and bruised head hung in exhaustion. I am reminded of a Savior, whose blood lost upon that crown was shed so that I, like my brothers and sisters at Ludlati and at home, would know true life forever with him.  I am reminded that the One who beckons me to follow Him, to follow His example often leads through paths that are not "safe" or "comfortable" but rather through paths that yield worth and return in the effort.  According to 2 Corinthians 4:17-18, His goal is not my comfort, but rather my greatest glory in Him.  The great comfort is that He will always be with us. 

The scar on my arm is fading.  I pray that the manner in which I obtained that scar does not fade from my mind.  I pray the conviction and the heart knowledge that burns within will forever remain and not be lost in time or distance.  I pray that I will be able to share a portion of that knowledge for God to move on people's hearts as He will.  As for me, I have found beauty in the thorns.

Corduroy and Trust

Another sleepless night, another restless hour before dawn.  I have the suspicion that this trend is beginning to exceed the normal adjustments imposed by jet lag and global travel.  Though this morning, my bride has joined me as our youngest has awoken weeping with continual pain in her teeth.  This occurs from time to time as a result of some of the blood abnormalities that she was born with that affected bone and teeth development when she was an infant.  As a result, her teeth are brittle, some have crumbled.  Our physicians all desire that they should come out naturally to provide proper spacing at the base for her healthy permanent teeth, so this is the end result; a little girl with tooth pain crying in the night.  And as for me; a 4:00 am trip to the local store for meds and children's pain killers because we ran out.

I am kneeling in the sandy African soil facing a brilliant sun.  He stares at me uncertain as to my intent.  This is it.  "First Contact" so to speak.  I have been waiting a long time for this opportunity and here it finally is.  A small child from our Ludlati care point, cautiously eyeing me as I attempt to interact, attempt to show love. 

He is a serious little one, with serious eyebrows and a piercing gaze.  He stares at me, ascertaining my dress, my movements, my body language.  I speak in soft light tones to him and he does not respond.  He only studies me.  He is wearing a pair of small yellow sweatpants that have a hole in the knee and a white t-shirt with blue and green stripes.  His small feet are adorned by crocs and I marvel that these small rubber and plastic shoes would endure this landscape.  He is holding a yellow soccer ball.

It is evident that English is not going to work and sign language and body motions are limited so I engage in the next logical language I know:  play.  I motion to this little one to roll the ball.  Doubtfully he studies me and never taking his eyes off of me, rolls the ball towards me.  I exclaim my delight in gentle tones as I roll it back.  His eyes never leave my face as he rolls it again.  Again I gently reassure him, praising his aim, his strength, anything to encourage.  Again, he solely focuses on my face as we continue this back and forth.

For an hour our game continued.  Occasionally a ball would go wild and I would chase it down or he would, likewise, run after it on small legs.  Every so often his piercing gaze would drift off into the distance and he would sigh.  Never a word was uttered by his lips, never a smile was raised by the corners of his mouth.  Yet in this silent game a bond was forged that carried through the week.  I had found my first little friend at Ludlati.  He came to me and I was blessed to hold him and carry him to the food line.  Again, never a smile, never a word.

Later in the week during colder mornings, my little friend wore a corduroy coat and as we had a tendency to do, when we could not or did not have names for some of the children, we began referring to them by distinguishing characteristics or clothing.  We had "Batman" and "Topknot Girl" and "Backpack Girl".  And then there was "Corduroy Boy", my little friend.  In the days we were at the care point, my friend continually sought me out and took my hand.  Often he simply wanted to be held.  Sometimes, he led me to a ball.  Never, did he speak a word.  On the next to the last day, I garnered my very first smiles from him as we played and I leaned him backwards and tickled him. 

Our last day, "Fun Day" as it has been dubbed, I did not get to play with him.  We were all so busy and there were so many children.  We helped in distributing the chicken dust lunches and gift bags, ran games and put the new soccer goals up.  It was not until the very end of the day when the children were all heading home and we were saying our final goodbyes to the bomake and children that I crossed paths with my little friend.  Much like our first meeting, he had a ball.  I motioned for him to roll it.  Studying me with that same piercing gaze, he proceeded to do so and our game commenced...for a few minutes.  Then his older sister came to lead him away home.  I said goodbye to the two of them.  His sister said "bye" and then Corduroy Boy turned and waved and said "bye" and walked away.  This was the only word he ever spoke to me in my entire time with him. 

I happen to know that these children go into a home of need as their family was one of the families visited by our home visits.  Lack is present and my little friend is in a home that is in need of food, income, and other basics.  This Ludlati care point is a very literal lifeline to my little friend who walks to the care point daily.  And though in my last post I promised not to follow the comparative, I cannot help but ponder the fact that these little ones are not afforded the luxury of mom or dad running to the local store in the middle of the night when they are sick or hungry or in need.  In Africa, they don't say you have a cold, they say "you've caught flu" as every slight illness is "flu".  Many of these kids had caught "flu", walking around with runny noses, sniffling all while singing praises to God, playing, and being loved.  All of them live in unheated homes and the nights were getting down to as low as the mid/upper 30s.  As a trip to town on public transportation costs 10 rand one way and a baker at the local market is making only 150 rand a month, one can guess how often trips to town are made for "necessities" and whether or not that list includes medications.

As I check on my daughter, now nestled in with my bride asleep, I cannot help but wonder if my little friend experiences the same love and compassion in an environment where hardships are continually present.  Where existence can be difficult, even brutal, is my little friend able to find comfort in the arms of a loving parent?  Many of these children are not, and are somewhat hardened for the realities of their existence in the process.  Difficulty and struggle promote ruggedness and strength, even at a young age and these children are far more self reliant and inventive than most children I know near my home.  However, this process of hardening is not without scars.  Many of these children are too wise too young and are hurting as a result.

One of the recurring themes in our teaching through the week was trusting God, even when life is difficult.  My bride enclosed daily notes of encouragement to me while I was away and on a very specific and needed day, I opened one with the following scripture:

"For our present troubles are small and won’t last very long. Yet they produce for us a glory that vastly outweighs them and will last forever!  So we don’t look at the troubles we can see now; rather, we fix our gaze on things that cannot be seen. For the things we see now will soon be gone, but the things we cannot see will last forever"   2 Corinthians 4:17-18

I am convicted in the writing of this passage as I also shared this scripture with the children during my teaching.  The children of Ludlati walk this out daily, with hope for a better future because, very often, God's promises are all they have.  To tell children who have recently lost their parents to AIDS "your problems are momentary but they are producing an eternal glory" is hollow if I cannot carry that back to my life.  To hear of a young man at the care point echoing these words to one of my team-mates and letting them take root in his heart is an amazing testimony, but it is fruitless to me if I cannot walk them out myself.  God's Word requires a paradigm shift when witnessed in action, particularly by the "least of these".  Even in the midst of lack, the children and families of Ludlati have given me far more than I ever gave them.

Peace has returned to my home.  Toothaches have been chased away, the sun is rising and my family sleeps.  I will continue to pray over Corduroy Boy and all of the children of Ludlati and trust in God's plan as he continues to breathe life into the midst of desolation on a remote Swazi mountainside.

Re-entry and Wreckage

I've been dreading this entry; dreading what this post will mean, what I would be feeling when it would be written.  My body aches as I am still recovering from a seven timezone jet-lag.  My heart aches as a part of it has been broken off and left two hemispheres away, yet there is joy that I cannot describe.  There is new found connection with brothers and sisters in Christ across this sphere that previously did not exist.  I struggle to recall the spices in the South African and Swaziland air that are not present in the central part of this nation.  My dreams are filled with small faces and red soil kicked up by arid winds and on those winds a song; "The Lord will bless someone today..."  This is the painful process of re-entry and frankly, it hurts. 

Last night I made my first venture out since my bride picked me up from the church where our team arrived home to meet their families on Sunday.  The surreal process of simply going to Walmart to pick up supplies for my daughter's birthday party was alien.  I felt like a man out of time as we walked through the store.  Walking behind my family down aisles stacked and laden with every conceivable good and product that we don't need, listening to my youngest children plead for every treat and confection that we came across, I felt disconnected while simultaneously feeling tremendous thanksgiving and love for the blessing that they are to me. 

Listening to them pine for candy, flavored yogurts, sweetened drinks, and candied cereals, the temptation was present to contrast them against the small ones I had just held just days previous on another continent.  I quickly dismissed this as it was a useless path to follow and I realized I was now present in another world with only pieces of the previous world residing in me.  Yet I now realize I am broken for this world, this American existence.  I cannot continue forward in this life on the path I have previously known and this bears analysis and explanation.

Guilt is not present.  There is no "children across the world don't have...." complex.  I will not impose this on my own family either.  This comparative is fruitless.  It is the comparative that we, as Americans, have hardened ourselves against when we turn the channel during the commercials pleading for our $1 a day donation to feed children in foreign lands. 

What is present is the knowledge of what it means to lay down your life for another.  I now have some reckoning of the meaning of Jesus' words "If you want to gain your life, you must first lose it".  I have seen it in action to the fullest.  I have felt the joy of it.  There is no more rich life than the life laid down for His service, for serving others, for saving others.  This is our sum-total purpose on this sphere and it brings a rich joy that cannot be reproduced in a family vacation or purchased goods, or entertainments.  It is the infusion of worth from yourself to another, a gift that somehow reciprocates to the giver as well as to the recipient.  It is life-to-life, love-to-love.  It is simply following Jesus' command found in John 15:12-13:

"This is my commandment: Love each other in the same way I have loved you.  There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends."

Catch that?  It's not a suggestion.  It's not a good idea.  It's not even a next step to a more fulfilled life.  It's a command for every one of us; "the same way I have loved you".  Jesus laid down everything of himself for every single one of us.  He gave of himself for us.  He sacrificed himself, put himself down, lost his life for each of us.  He looks to us to follow.  But the life we gain so far exceeds what we are laying down, the contrast is often difficult to describe.  Those who have experienced this transformation often find themselves speaking to polite smiles and pleasant head nodding as they attempt to share the fire that now burns within. 

This is the wreckage of realization that most people in our society, even within our churches simply acknowledge Jesus' words as good ideas without acknowledging Him as the Lord who is commanding obedience to follow His example.  His love, grace and mercy are abundantly present as His spirit continues to plead with us to know Him, to follow Him, to lay ourselves down for Him.  Our greatest potential and fulfillment is in Him, we were created by Him and for Him and only in Him will we ever know the fullness of joy and purpose.  Yet somehow this idea doesn't translate to most and those who do capture it are at odds with a sin laden world.

I was speaking to one of my Swaziland team-mates and we were discussing how we were ever going to be able to tell the story of Ludlati and we came to the realization that we were never going to be able to fully tell it.  That in the visiting of the care point, the holding of children, the greeting of the bomake, the rolling in the dirt with the small ones and the tears of seeing a mother next to her son's deathbed, we had within us a possession that could not be fully shared.  We each possessed it, but we could not fully give it, no matter how much we desire to.  This possession has changed us, wrecked our hearts for life.  The encouragement in all of this is that ultimately, this is God's story.  Because of the obedience to Jesus' command by others, I was able to witness and partake and God is breathing life into desolation.

But here is the great thing.  Jesus' command does not require a visit to far off nations.  I have the great gift of being able to walk out his command daily, right here in my home, in my work, in my day-to-day routine because my "routine" can be divinely appointed by God.  We saw this time and time again as God continually had us crossing paths with people to whom we were able to witness to and tell about our Known To Me and Ludlati communities and the Word.  Each of these were divine appointments whether they were the woman I sat next to on the flight who was coming back from AIDS assistance in the Bahamas or the man we stood next to in customs who was, likewise, on a mission trip to South Africa and with whom we rejoiced in God's work.  God doesn't do "routine" and if we'll open ourselves to Jesus' command, He'll provide the opportunities for us to fulfill our destinies in Him.  We'll know the richest, most joyful life imaginable. 

Today I return to the "routine".  Thankfully it promises to be anything but as I am so grateful for re-entry with a wrecked heart.

Mr. Poops

Disclaimer:  the following could be construed as distasteful and disgusting and should not be viewed by the weak of constitution or those with a delicate stomach.  Nor should this reading be viewed by young children as such viewing might promote degenerate behavior.  In fact, the author should stop reading immediately before continued writing of this post is impeded by the offsetting of remembered "gag-reflex".  Viewer discretion is advised.

One day this week I arrived home hot and tired and after greeting my bride with a kiss and a hug, I set my bag down and went in search of the little faces that would help to wash away all of the cares from my day.

My bride informed me that my oldest was next door swimming.  My daughter came running out of her room and hugged me.  Joy.  I love this part of the day.  Austin, however, would not come immediately to me.  I said "hi buddy" and he returned my greeting as he continued to pick up cars from the floor in the hallway.  He hurried past me and then back again as he went down the hall to his room.  I could tell by his demeanor he probably had been in trouble and was instructed to clean up.  Then it hit me; an odor that was repugnant and disgusting.  I looked at my bride quizzically.  "What is that?"  Her face mirrored a similar confusion  and the same thought struck both of us. 

"Austin?  Do you have to go potty?"  He sheepishly muttered something from his bedroom and we could both tell from the tone of his voice that he thought he was in trouble.  Uh-oh.  This usually means he has done something worth being in trouble.  "Austin, come here."  As he came around the corner, it was apparent on his face that he knew he had been caught, but we had no idea what we had caught him in.   "Austin do you have to go....."  There was that odor again.  "Come here Austin".

He began nervously coughing as he approached.  My bride turned him around and looked in his pants and nearly gagged as the odor immediately filled the hallway in concentration.  His pants were full and overflowing with excrement and it was evident he had been roaming the rooms in this condition for some time.  "Austin?  Why did you potty in your pants?" she asked, worried for his health.

We never expected the answer we received.  "Because I angry and I wanted to."

My emotions went from "poor little guy didn't quite make it to the bathroom" to "YOU DID WHAT?????" in a furious flash.  My bride asked the thoughts I was thinking as anger stole speech from my tongue.  "Why would you do this?"  The answer was the same.  "Because I angry and I wanted to."  We obviously had a few things to say to our soiled son - but they would have to wait as we had to get him cleaned up.  The stench was overwhelming.  Tonya went to the bedroom to garner clean clothing and I took Mr. Poops to the bathroom.  I then heard her exclaiming in dismay and shock from the other room and left my son as I ran down the hallway.  At the foot of his bed was a small pile of his recent gifting where he had evidently started his rebellious "I'll show you" rant by squatting on the floor just before filling his pants.  We were both outraged and shocked at our son's actions.  This is one of those times where your children hear you say their full name with volume and force. 

"AUSTIN JOEL MIKEWORTH!!!"

My daughter, by now intrigued by the commotion came running in.  "What?  What's going on?"  We told her to leave as we tried to absorb this foul new chain of events.  "What happened?" 

"Austin pooped on the floor!", we chimed in unison.  Her reply took this series of events to a new level.  "Really?", she said.  "Well he peed on my carpet too!"  Tonya and I just stared at each other, open mouthed.  Our sweet son, had used our daughter's area rug as urinal.

I later learned that my son had been asked to clean his toys up prior to my arrival.  Like most 6 year olds this was not on the top of his list of "most-funnest-things-to-do-ever" and after repeated episodes of disobedience he finally relented with the threat of losing his beloved Mario Brothers game for the evening.  His simple response - poop his pants and pee on his sister's rug.

You can imagine bath time was not that fatherly Norman Rockwell warm bonding moment.  Cleaning off a six year old boy who not only purposefully soiled himself but then walked around in it for an unaccounted-for-amount of time was not the best thing I did that day.  In fact, it probably rates as one of the least favorite things I've ever done.  One can only imagine how well that filth worked its way into all of the "nooks and crannies" of human anatomy when allowed to on an active little boy.  Three days later I am still disgusted by the experience, my son is still sans Mario Brothers, and Lydia is still teasing him about wetting on the carpet like Figaro (the dog).  But I've gained some perspective on the affair. 

Austin's actions were not just the lashing out of a rebellious 6 year old who did not want to clean his room.  A phenomenon that is common with foster and adopted children is they will often push the envelope of obedience and known consequences just to see what the parents' reactions will be.  They will frequently do things as if to say "See what I just did?  What are you going to do?  Do you still love me?"  They are constantly testing the depth and integrity of the bonds of commitment of their new found families when all they've ever known is fear and abandonment. 

And there is the picture of us all.  How often have we rebelled against our Heavenly Father, tested His love for us?  Some go to extremes by engaging in actions or lifestyles they know to be harmful to self or others, all to say "Do you still love me?  Will anyone still love me?"  His answer is always "Yes, more than you can possibly imagine or know."  Some refuse to give over the reigns of their lives, refuse to submit their wills, convinced no love could undo their past.  Existing in the filth of sin, they ignore the plea of the Father "Please come to me, let me clean that off of you and make you whole and healthy." 

I love my son, though I honestly was not feeling compassion as I cleaned his filthy naked body in the bathtub that night.  God, thankfully,  loves each of us with great compassion even when we continue to test that love; even when we continue to say to him "Do you still love me?"  There will be judgement for actions.  There are consequences for choices.  Rebellion is sin and sin coils around us with deadly ramifications if we continue to permit its existence in our lives.  But our Father is continually pleading with us to let the blood of His Son wash us clean from all of this, let Him cleanse us spotless, righteous, and blameless.  There is nothing cleaner than God's clean. 

So  you threw a tantrum, you squatted in a corner and rebelled, did that thing that is harmful to you, said those words you shouldn't have, hurt that person, or made that choice.  He'll lovingly clean you off, set you on your feet, and put you back on your right path.  You don't have to remain Mr. Poops.

"But if we are living in the light of God's presence, just as Christ is, then we have fellowship with each other, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, cleanses us from every sin.  If we say we have no sin, we are only fooling ourselves and refusing to accept the truth.  But if we confess our sins to him, he is faithful and just to forgive us and to cleanse us from every wrong."
1 John 1:7-9  NLT